


have mercy on me

by hiuythn



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Hanahaki Disease, Iwaizumi Hajime Being an Idiot, Lack of Communication, M/M, Minor Hanamaki Takahiro/Matsukawa Issei, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oikawa Tooru Being Oikawa Tooru, Unrequited Love, guys just talk, hajime ignores the problem until he can't anymore, they're just idiots, tooru is dense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 21:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8770138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiuythn/pseuds/hiuythn
Summary: Hajime looks at the black and white slides, takes in the way the plant grows uninhibited inside him. He presses a hand to his ribcage. It doesn’t even feel like there’s anything wrong.----Or, Hajime gets the Hanahaki disease.  Born from unrequited love, the patient throws up flowers and could suffocate if not treated. The infection can be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear along with the petals.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There was a lot of tsukkiyama hanahaki and surprisingly not a lot for the most angsty pairing in haikyuu.  
> ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿ please enjoy.

Hajime rubs at his neck, smooths his fingers down to the hollow of his throat and presses there. He swallows, tongue heavy in his mouth.

Lately, he’s been getting a sort of rawness in his voice, rough in the morning like he’s been yelling. It’s different from the creak of his vocal cords during those first few months of puberty—that was harmless, though embarrassing. This is more irritating; it scratches relentlessly at the back of his throat every time he inhales. Maybe he’s coming down with a cold.

“That’d suck,” he says. He’s got a test tomorrow.

“What’d suck, Iwa-chan?”

Hajime’s fingers twitch, nails brushing against his collarbone and he turns his head.

Oikawa Tooru stands behind him, a hand on Hajime’s chair and leaning over him. Oikawa’s head is tilted just so, hair falling in delicate waves and an easy smile on his face. He’s out of his blazer but still has his sweater vest on, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and tie loosened just a bit.

Hajime’s fingers twitch again and he wants to laugh when he realizes they’ve curled to the shape of an imaginary volleyball that he was about to throw at Oikawa and his stupid face.

“Iwa-chan? Are you okay?” Oikawa leans in closer, eyes flicking down to where Hajime’s hand lies on his neck. “Do you have a sore throat?”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it,” Hajime says, turning back to face the front of the classroom.

“No way, could it be,” Oikawa steps into his field of vision and wraps a hand around Hajime’s wrist, “that Iwa-chan is hiding a hickey?!”

Hajime blinks, too baffled by that to resist when Oikawa yanks his hand away from his neck.

Matsukawa and Hanamaki snort from where they’re sitting in chairs around Hajime’s desk, watching Oikawa invade Hajime’s personal space, shoving his face close to Hajime’s and pulling at Hajime’s shirt collar, opening it further.

“Hmm? There’s nothing there.” Oikawa huffs.

Hajime shivers, feeling the warmth of Oikawa’s breath slide over his exposed skin. He plants a hand on Oikawa’s face and shoves, grumbling. “Of course there’s nothing, Shittykawa.”

“Iwa-chan, so mean! I was just looking out for your well-being!”

“Whatever.” Hajime takes out his bento and very carefully does not notice how Oikawa pouts and drags over an empty chair, the muscles in his forearms tensing under pale skin.

Oikawa takes the last free space of Hajime’s desk and the four of them start on their lunches, squished together and elbows bumping. Oikawa steals Hajime’s chicken and Hajime viciously picks off Oikawa’s tofu in revenge. Hanamaki challenges Hajime to another arm wrestling match, mouth full of rice and fish and Hajime agrees readily, shoving his sleeves up. Matsukawa rolls his eyes at all of them and reminds them to finish eating first, somehow radiating suffering even with that laid-back face of his.

 

 

“Oh, almost forgot,” Hajime says, after he’s beat Hanamaki again. “Hanamaki, is there a Kurokawa Mayumi in your class?”

Hanamaki looks up from where he’s rubbing at his wrist, “Yeah, why?”

“I found this by the entrance—” Hajime pulls a notebook from his bag— “a few days ago, and I didn’t have the chance to hand it to her, yet.” He moves to stand, but Oikawa reaches out and grabs his wrist. There's bread crumbs clinging to his vest and his tie is crooked. Hajime hates how he's used to noticing these completely useless things about Oikawa.

“Wait, Iwa-chan, why don’t you just, um, let Makki give it to her?”

“It’s fine, it’s only two doors down.”

Oikawa opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Hajime raises an eyebrow when Oikawa still doesn’t let go, a constipated look on his face.

“Actually, she’s not here today.”

They all turn to Hanamaki, who stares down at the desk, mouth pulled into a tight line. He picks at the chipping paint on the corner. “She’s got the Hanahaki disease.”

Matsukawa exhales slowly and beside Hajime, Oikawa lets out a soft ‘oh’ and tightens his fingers on Hajime’s wrist.

Hanamaki scrubs a hand over his short pink hair. “Yeah, she went to the hospital yesterday. But you could try giving it to Yamamoto Aiko—Kurokawa’s best friend.”

“…Sure.” Hajime slips out of Oikawa’s hold and heads for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

He makes his way to Class 3 and asks for Yamamoto. She’s a short girl, black hair loose around her shoulders and uniform untucked, bow nowhere in sight. Her eyes are red-rimmed.

Hajime holds out the notebook and can’t find in himself to say anything when Yamamoto takes it in her hands, staring blankly at the name on the cover. She looks up at him after a moment and thanks him. He nods and makes his way back to class, chewing on his lip.

 _The Hanahaki disease, huh?_ Hajime knows a little bit about it, a disease that results from one-sided love. You cough up flowers until either your love is returned or you get the surgery to remove it before the petals suffocate you.

 _But cut out the flowers and you cut out the feelings. The surgery makes sure you never feel that way for that person ever again,_ he remembers his mom saying, peeling oranges in the summer heat and the fan whirring away in the background. _Your aunt did the surgery._

 _She couldn’t get the person she loved to love her back?_ He had asked, blunt as any seven-year old could be. His memory gets murky after that, but he thinks it’s pretty obvious what the answer was.

“How cruel.”

 

 

“Iwa-chaaaaan, what’d you get for number 12?”

“I got -90,” Hanamaki says from Hajime’s right.

“Same.” Across the table, Matsukawa twirls his pencil, chin propped on his palm.

Oikawa shoots up from his sprawl on Hajime’s bedroom floor and points an accusing finger at the both of them, eyes narrowed. “Stop trying to trick me, it won’t work this time! It’s so not -90!”

Hajime flips a page of his textbook. “It’s -90.”

Matsukawa and Hanamaki burst out laughing at the betrayed look Oikawa sends his way, brown eyes wide and mouth hanging open.

“Iwa-chan, are you serious?” Oikawa whines, and Matsukawa reaches over to pull at his cheek. There’s a deep wrinkle between Oikawa’s eyebrows, his hair sticks up at the back from lying down and Hajime can see milk bread crumbs on his lower lip. He looks ridiculous, so different from the front he puts up at school.

Hajime feels a smile tugging at his lips, and he opens his mouth to tell Oikawa he was kidding—

And he coughs.

His friends don’t notice, still joking and pushing at each other, homework forgotten, but suddenly Hajime’s heartbeat sounds loud in his ears.

He wills himself to breathe slowly and releases the death grip he has on his pencil. It’s just a cough, he’ll make sure to drink some cold medicine before he sleeps. He clears his throat and turns back to his math problem, the numbers and variables incomprehensible no matter how many times he rubs at his eyes.

He tries not to think that for a moment there, between the cough and the sting it left behind, Hajime swore he tasted _plant_.

 

 

“I hope Kurokawa-chan is going to be okay,” Oikawa says, after Matsukawa and Hanamaki have gone home.

“Yeah.” Hajime closes his eyes, leaning back against his bed and Oikawa shifts his head on Hajime’s shoulder, his mint shampoo scent wafting into Hajime’s nose.

“If something like that happens to you, you’ll let me know first, right? That you like someone enough to grow flowers in your heart?” There’s a curious sort of tone in Oikawa’s voice.

Hajime snorts, not bothering to answer and Oikawa huffs but drops it. For sixteen damn seconds.

“You have to be my best man when I get married, okay?”

“Why the hell are you talking about marriage.”

“Well, you know. Hanahaki, one-sided love, marriage, mutual love. My thoughts naturally progressed from one to the other, Iwa-chan, keep up.”

“Your brain makes no sense as usual, Crappykawa.”

Oikawa ignores this, propping his chin on Hajime’s shoulders and looking at him with those damn brown eyes. Brown should not look as nice as that. Hajime scowls, unreasonably ticked off.

“What about you, Iwa-chan? Don’t you want to get married?”

Hajime digs his fingers into the carpet. _He’s not asking you to get married to_ him, _calm down._ He breathes out oh so slowly and the prickling warmth of his blush subsides. Oikawa pokes at Hajime’s stomach insistently, toes wiggling in his blue alien socks. Hajime wraps his hand around the offending finger and squeezes until Oikawa starts making pitiful noises.

“Doesn’t matter what I want, because you’d definitely die without me so I’ll probably have to live next door to you and your poor wife,” Hajime grumbles, staring up at the ceiling. “She’d take care of you four days a week and I’d have the remaining three while she gets a well-deserved rest. There’d be no room to fit in a relationship co-managing your ass like that.”

Oikawa doesn’t say anything to that, oddly still next to him and Hajime tries to get a look at his face but the damn fringe is in the way. Oikawa lets out a short laugh, filled with something Hajime can’t put a name to, and turns his face further into Hajime’s neck, raising goosebumps on Hajime’s skin.

“Somehow, I feel like I’ve lost to you, Iwa-chan.”

 

 

Hajime’s sitting at the kitchen table and his mom is telling him about the Calla lilies their neighbours are growing.

“But mom,” Hajime frowns, “it’s November.”

His mom doesn’t look at him, still packing his bento. “What are you talking about, Hajime, it’s almost summer. Look outside.”

Hajime does, half-rising out of his seat to peer out the window, and hears a faint ringing in his ears when he sees the cherry trees in full bloom. _That can’t be right,_ he thinks, _we just lost to Karasuno last month in the semi-finals._

He turns back to his mom—but it’s not his mom with the faded blue apron on, it’s Oikawa and he’s crying.

 _What the fuck._ Hajime needs to sit down but he falls on his ass when he tries to because he’s not in his kitchen anymore, he’s on a cliff.

He scrambles away from the edge, heart in his throat. The rocks scrape his palms and they bleed blue and teal, seeping in to the dusty, dry ground beneath him. The wind blows against his back, whipping the tie he draped over his shoulders off into the horizon, where it transforms into an eagle, white wings spread against a pink-orange sky.

“Iwa-chan.”

Oikawa stands a few paces from him, at the edge and Hajime tries to tell him to get away from there but Oikawa holds up a hand and Hajime’s throat closes up. He chokes, the ringing in his ears growing louder.

“Iwa-chan. There’s no time, the aliens are here and I have to go, I have to go to them,” Oikawa says, and the mountains in the distance morph into girls. Girls Oikawa has dated, short and tall, brunette, blond, black-haired, all pretty and wearing tacky green alien masks around their necks. Oikawa’s still got the goddamn apron on and Hajime can’t breathe.

He struggles to stand, struggles to bring up a hand and grab at the number one jersey Oikawa’s wearing under the apron, but his arms feel so heavy and he can’t focus, the ringing is so loud and Oikawa’s saying something but Hajime can’t _hear_ him, he can’t reach him, Oikawa’s going to walk off the cliff, _Tooru, don’t!—_

Hajime rolls onto his side, hacking and spitting, gasping for air.

The last pieces of the dream shatter under the shrill screaming of his alarm and he clutches at his sheets, the box-spring squeaking quietly. The early morning darkness lies heavy over his body and he presses his forehead into the mattress, shuddering. His toes curl and his eyes feel so dry behind his lids.

“Hajime, wake up and turn off your alarm already!”

He reaches up and fumbles for his phone, swiping until it falls silent. He doesn’t get up.

Lying in a puddle of spit by his head are five pale-blue petals.

 

 

Hajime goes to school.

He puts on his uniform and places the bento his mom made into his bag. He leaves his house, walks over to Oikawa’s and waits by the front gate. He makes sure to cuff Oikawa on the head when the idiot comes out ten minutes late and when he makes stupid remarks and Hajime’s voice is even when they talk homework and volleyball.

He doesn’t look at Oikawa and he doesn’t look at his neighbour’s yard when they walk by.

Hajime goes to school. And doesn’t think of the petals in his trashcan and in his throat.

 

 

Ignoring the problem works for two weeks.

Hajime will wake up in the morning and there’ll be the same pale-blue petals lying innocently on his pillow. He’ll gather them up in a shaky hand and flush them down the toilet, watching them spin in the water and growing smaller until they disappear with a gurgle.

_(his mom almost found the ones in the trashcan)_

And then he’ll walk to school with his best friend that he dreams about more often than not these days. He’ll take notes in class, answer questions, stare out the window at the sky a bit—

_(but never at the trees or the garden by the gates)_

—and then his friends will come gather in his class and they’ll eat lunch huddled around a tiny desk, knees knocking and throwing food just as much as they throw mocking jibes at each other.

_(and sometimes Oikawa will be called out by a classmate, something about a girl wanting to talk to him, and Hajime will force a grin and push Oikawa out the door, joining in when Matsukawa and Hanamaki yell out teasing remarks)_

_(Oikawa likes girls)_

_(Oikawa likes girls)_

At the end of the day, Hajime and the rest of the third year volleyball players will meet up and pretend they aren’t all heading to the gym. But they do, staying there and playing volleyball for an hour or two before the coach kicks them out, yelling about university entrance exams with their kouhai waving bye in the background. The four of them will go to Hajime’s house and study and then rage-quit halfway through and pick up the PlayStation controllers instead.

It’s all very normal.

And Hajime has no trouble ignoring the thickness in his windpipe, the itchiness at the back of his nose from the pollen, and he knows when he has to book it to the washroom to cough up more petals. He can handle it.

He can handle it when Oikawa drops the smile reserved for his fangirls and grins wide and unabashedly instead. He doesn’t stare when Oikawa stretches and groans, all satisfied after finishing his meal. Looks away when his best friend drags the bottom of his shirt across his forehead during practice, sweating and panting, sharp-eyed and focused. Hajime tells himself that his heart doesn’t do double-time when Oikawa hangs all over his back when they walk anywhere, whining about the winter chill and how he needs Hajime’s “gorilla-body heat” to keep him warm.

He’s been handling it for a while, now that he thinks about it. It’s nothing new.

And then the amount of petals starts multiplying.

 

 

“Iwa-chan, are you okay? You’re taking a loooong time, are you pooping?”

Hajime wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, staring down at the twelve petals in the toilet for the fifth time that day.

“Shut the fuck up, Trashykawa.” He flushes the toilet and steps out of the stall.

Oikawa is leaning against the wall in front of Hajime, arms crossed and toying with his hair. He looks over, eyes landing on Hajime’s face and he frowns. Hajime is hit with the sudden terrifying thought that Oikawa _knows_.

_(he can’t he can’t it’d ruin things hajime won’t ruin this—)_

But all his friend does is push off the wall and steer him to the sink, hands firm on his back. Hajime lets him, too weak from the vomiting to protest.

“Wahh Iwa-chan, you look even uglier than usual today! Maybe some food will make you stop frowning so much. And a sports drink, maybe?” Oikawa plants Hajime in front of the sink mirror, taking in the pale, clammy skin and the way Hajime’s eyes droop. “Mmm, make that two sports drinks.”

Hajime snorts, pumps soap into his hands. “Yes, Mom.”

Oikawa doesn’t rise to the bait, just cocks a hip against the counter and waits for Hajime to finish. Hajime takes his time, scrubbing under his nails and between his fingers. He can’t look at Oikawa just yet, and his throat tightens up again but it’s not the flowers that’s choking him this time. God, when did Hajime become so weak for an awful guy like him?

He rinses his hands, grabbing a paper towel to dry off. Oikawa still hasn’t said anything.

“I’m fine.” Hajime throws the wadded up paper into the trash and raises his head, meeting Oikawa head-on.

“I know you _think_ you’re fine—” damn Oikawa for knowing him so well— “so I’m not gonna ask about that. But Iwa-chan,” Oikawa straightens, and Hajime mirrors him instinctively, “if you’re hiding something big from me, I’ll be really disappointed, okay?”

And Oikawa’s not smiling or frowning—but he’s got his game face on and damn Hajime for feeling heat pool in his stomach, having it directed at him.

“I’m not hiding anything from you.” Hajime plants a hand in Oikawa’s hair, scrubbing furiously until Oikawa’s face screws up unattractively and he bats uselessly at Hajime’s wrist. “Don’t try to act all captainly with me right now; we’re in a stinky public washroom, for god's sake.”

Oikawa peers up at him, hunched over from Hajime’s unrelenting grip. Hajime feels a vein throb in his temple—how the fuck do his eyes always look like they’re sparkling? And a pout like that should not look so appealing on guy’s face.

“Aw Iwa-chan, I’m just worried about you. You always look out for me and end up forgetting about yourself sometimes, you know?”

Hajime blinks, the honesty throwing him off. They never really talk about how Hajime aggressively cares for Oikawa. He feels a rising blush in his cheeks and he clicks his tongue, letting go and stomping out the door.

“Hurry up, Matsukawa and Hanamaki are waiting for us—the movie’s probably already started.”

Oikawa snorts. “Oh, don’t worry about them, Iwa-chan. They’re totally occupied with each other—why do you think I came in here to wait for you?”

Hajime comes to a sudden stop and Oikawa crashes into him, yelping.

“Wait, they’re together?”

Oikawa rubs at his bruised nose, squinting down at Hajime and Hajime curses the height difference. “Wow, you’re really dense, Iwa-chan.”

Hajime stares blankly at Oikawa, fingers twitching for a volleyball. _He’s_ dense? Right.

“You’re so annoying.”

“Rude!”

 

 

Hajime goes in to see his doctor the next day.

Dr. Kinomoto _tsks_ worriedly when he shows her the petals and she sends him into the next room for an x-ray. The results come back and Hajime thinks this makes it all the more real, staring at the flowers blooming in his chest.

_I’m in love with Oikawa Tooru._

Dr. Kinomoto’s talking about the disease, the development and the symptoms but there’s a muffled feeling to the noise in the room like he’s wearing earmuffs and he almost reaches up to make sure.

He wants to laugh. When did he even fall for that volleyball idiot? He didn’t even realize, can’t pinpoint the moment he looked at Oikawa and thought _what a crappy personality_ and _I’d still kiss him, though._

Hajime looks at the black and white slides, takes in the way the plant grows uninhibited inside him. He presses a hand to his ribcage. It doesn’t even feel like there’s anything wrong.

Dr. Kinomoto shuffles her papers, and looks at him over her glasses. “So, Iwaizumi-kun. When do you want to come in for the surgery?”

Hajime bites his lip.

_(—makes sure you never feel that way for that person ever again)_

Surgery, huh?

 

 

In the end, he asks for a few more weeks—

_(i want to try something)_

—and Dr. Kinomoto tells him he has one. Less than that if he spends too much time around Oikawa and exacerbates his condition. She had looked at him then and smiled, told him good luck and pressed a pack of cough drops into his palm.

The temperature drops low on Monday, and Hajime bundles up, grabbing an extra scarf and hat because he just _knows_ Oikawa will forget his scarf and completely forego the hat because the idiot thinks he can put up with the cold if it means his hair stays looking nice. He’s right, of course. Halfway to school, Oikawa starts shooting looks at Hajime which Hajime pretends he doesn’t notice, just to mess with him. Totally not because Oikawa’s nose looks cuter the redder it gets and the way his mouth progressively hikes up into an upside-down ‘v’ like the emoticons he always sends.

Definitely not.

He hands over the scarf and hat after another minute, though, and tries not to laugh too hard when Oikawa yanks them on excitedly.

“Dumbass, you never learn.”

“But Iwa-chaaan, I was just thinking of my fangirls! They really like my hair!”

Unthinkingly, Hajime says, “And? Your hair still looks just as good in that hat.”

Oikawa stares at him and Hajime wants to crawl into the sewer where he belongs. He was wrong this entire time, _he’s_ the one that’s trash, here.

“Don’t look at me like that, it’s not like you don’t already know it.” Hajime looks straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the blush on his cheeks.

“A-ah. Yeah, of course I look great, even in your ugly beanie—finally, Iwa-chan’s realised!”

“Oh my God, please shut up.”

They make it to class without anymore incidents of Hajime’s malfunctioning brain-to-mouth filter and like usual, Oikawa’s fanclub meets him by the gate, bearing extra gloves and hot chocolate.

_(Oikawa likes girls)_

_(Oikawa dates girls)_

And like usual, Hajime leaves Oikawa with them, waving a hand when Oikawa says, “See you at lunch, Iwa-chan!”

The hand comes down quickly, though, clamping over his mouth and Hajime clenches his teeth, hurrying to the lockers to switch shoes. The washroom should be empty this early in the morning.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

 

 

“Hey, did you guys see where Oikawa went?”

Someone says they saw him by the vending machines and Hajime thanks them, turning on his heel.  _I look away for five seconds and he wanders off._

Hajime walks through the doors and sees the vending machines, but no dumb pretty setter in sight, so he opens his mouth, about to call out when he hears voices.

“…saw you at a match last year and you were so cool, Tooru-kun—”

He stills and his mouth closes. _Oh. Another confession._ Against the blaring sirens in his mind, Hajime peeks around the corner, hands fisted at his sides. She’s in Hajime’s class, sits two rows behind his and he remembers lending her his notes a few months back. She’s cute, height reaching just under Oikawa’s chin and slim in a way that suggest track and field.

They look…they look nice. Together.

And Hajime feels the petals building just under his collarbone again but he doesn’t move from his spot, struck with a sudden thought.

Oikawa hasn’t had a girlfriend since before summer break and he’s never gone for long without one. The girl confessing fits the type Oikawa’s dated in the past, and there’s nothing stopping him from dating her. She’s in the same year as them and there’s another term left of school, they could date, grow closer—maybe she’d end up going to the same school as Oikawa if they get serious.

Hajime shakes his head, forcefully dislodging the panic clinging to his thoughts but the petals crawling out of his mouth don’t relent and Hajime has to run to the building across, diving behind the wall just in time to vomit blue _flowers_.

 _Entire_ _flowers_ , whole and covered in specks of blood.

 _That’s new,_ he thinks groggily. It takes him a few seconds to recover, breathing raggedly as he takes in the small pile of blue by his feet.

“Holy shit.”

Hajime’s head snaps up and the blood drains from his face when he finds Yamamoto Aiko leaning against the wall, a horrified look on her face.

“Holy _shit_ ,” she says again, and her hands fumble in the pockets of her blazer. “Iwaizumi-san, what—do you need me to call an ambulance?”

Hajime jerks into action, flinging out a hand to grab Yamamoto’s arm, “No no no, I’m fine, I’ll be fine.”

She faces him, and Hajime is alarmed to find that there are _tears_ in her eyes. “Iwaizumi-san, those are full-bloom flowers. There’s _blood_.”

Hajime frowns, and Yamamoto says, “That’s one step away from suffocation.”

And just like that, Hajime gets it. Yamamoto has a best friend who’s in the hospital for the same disease as his. She’s probably seen all the stages first-hand.

Well, hopefully not the last stage.

“I-I’ll be fine,” he repeats, “I’ll go get it looked at later, just—no ambulances, okay?”

She sucks in a sharp breath and nods slowly. Hajime lets go of her arm, turning back to the flowers. He supposes he could throw them into the bushes behind him and call it done. He crouches down and starts gathering them into his arms.

Shoes appear at the corner of his vision and Yamamoto kneels down beside him, her small trembling hands scooping up the bloodied flowers.

“You don’t have to do that,” Hajime says. The flowers leave red streaks on their hands.

Yamamoto just shakes her head.

Between the two of them, the clean-up goes quickly and the flowers are dumped into the bushes. Yamamoto pulls a packet of tissues from her pockets and offers one to Hajime and they wipe the blood off.

“How’s Kurokawa? If it’s okay to ask.”

Yamamoto fiddles with her tissue, rolls it up and squishes it between her hands. “She got to your stage a day ago, and she’s really—tired. She spends more time unconscious than awake, but at least asleep she won’t spend a whole hour throwing up.”

Hajime scrubs a hand over his head. “She hasn’t decided on surgery?”

Yamamoto makes a face, “No. I keep telling her to do it but she says she doesn’t want forget her feelings. What good is it, though, if she’s not even around to feel it anyways?”

Hajime doesn’t comment on the crack in her voice at the last word, staring up at the sky instead. “So she’s going for a confession, then.”

“That’s the thing,” Yamamoto slumps back against the wall, head bowed. “She hasn’t told the person yet.”

“What? Why not?”

“I don’t know; she won’t tell me. To be honest, at this point I think she’s just running away.”

Hajime stares at the top of Yamamoto’s head.

_Running away._

They fall into a silence, Yamamoto looking more and more upset with each passing second and Hajime doesn’t know what to say, can’t say anything because—

_Running away._

_Am I running away, too?_

He avoided even thinking about the flowers for weeks after he first got them. And even when his doctor showed him the slides, showed him just how far the flowers had grown into him, how deep the roots were and how the petals bloomed faster and faster each day, he still couldn’t give her a date for the surgery. He told her he wanted to try something, wanted to try fixing it on his own but here he is. Hiding behind a building and making no moves to go through with it.

Hajime’s nails bite into his palm and he glares down at his shoes. When did he become such a coward?

 

 

He doesn’t go help with the kouhai’s practice that day, which isn’t unusual—they’re not active club members anymore. Instead, he tells his friends he’s heading home right away. Matsukawa and Hanamaki don’t think too much of it, waving bye to him and yelling about how Hajime probably needs the extra study hours. He flips them off, grinning.

Oikawa looks at him oddly, though, something dark in his eyes but Hajime doesn’t stick around to find out what it means.

 

 

The next day, he wakes up fuzzy-headed and throat sore. Flowers cover every inch of his bed, spilling onto the floor and he curses. His sheets are blood-stained and he rushes to throw them in the wash.

He loses count of how many times he has to flush the toilet that morning.

Oikawa’s still there by his gate when Hajime shows up fifteen minutes late and he guesses the fatigue shows on his face because his friend doesn’t whine about waiting at all. In fact, Oikawa doesn’t say a single thing and the walk to school is done without any conversation, something Hajime is grateful for. He doesn’t think he could focus on anything but putting one foot in front of the other.

 

 

Class is torture, the bright lights hurt his eyes and the droning of his teachers’ voice sounds awfully shrill today. He puts his head in his hands and takes deep breaths, willing the bell to ring so he can escape to the washroom. He doubts the teacher will let him interrupt the class again for his third washroom break in an hour.

Hajime swallows another cough drop even though the stuff stopped working two classes ago and he can feel the petals brushing the back of his mouth. He clamps down on the urge to cough.

 

 

Lunch comes but Hajime doesn’t eat, doesn’t wait for his friends to come to his class. He locks himself in the washroom instead and pukes and pukes and pukes. He’s on his knees, hands gripping the bowl of the toilet and he feels so _weak_ , he’s thrown up so many flowers and so much blood that his insides feel all mashed up from his abdomen tensing over and over again.

He can’t keep doing this, he has to tell him. It's not like he's hoping Oikawa will _—_ reciprocate it, or anything, he just needs to get this off his chest, move on, set a date for surgery. And he's _—_

_(not a coward)_

_(he’s not a coward but—_

_but—_

_Oikawa likes girls_

_Oikawa dates girls_

_Oikawa will hate him_

_Oikawa will leave him_

_“I have to go; the aliens are here—")_

There’s a knock on his stall door. Hajime leans his head against his wrist, eyes falling shut.

“Hey, are you okay in there? Do you need to go to the nurse’s?” The voice is unfamiliar and Hajime relaxes.

“No, I’m—bad breakfast. Just gimme a sec.”

“…Okay, if you’re sure.” The person on the other side says uncertainly. He listens to them shuffle away, the washroom door clanging shut behind them.

Hajime stands and presses the handle to flush the toilet. He washes his hands, taking in the bags under his eyes and the ashy tone of his skin. He looks dead.

Hajime wipes the blood off his lips and leaves the washroom.

He gets back to class and finds Matsukawa, Hanamaki, and Oikawa all standing around his desk, whispering furiously with each other.

“Why do you guys always look so suspicious,” Hajime says, dropping into his seat.

“Iwai—oh my God, are you dying?” Hanamaki asks, only half-joking as he cradles Hajime’s face between his hands. Hajime just looks at him tiredly. Matsukawa leans in on Hajime’s other side, laying a hand on his forehead and the frown his friend wears is so severe that Hajime feels a fond laugh bubble up in his chest.

“Iwa…chan?”

Finally, Hajime’s gaze lands on Oikawa and his breath hitches.

Oikawa looks _terrified._ His chest rises and falls quickly and his eyes flick over Hajime’s face like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Seriously, Iwaizumi, you look awful. Maybe you should go home,” Matsukawa says, jerking Hajime out of the staring contest with Oikawa. He frowns but Matsukawa just raises his (rather impressive) eyebrows back at him, unamused. “This is not the time to be tough, arm wrestling champion. Get your butt home and rest before Hanamaki ends up cradling a corpse.”

Hajime rolls his eyes, but he knows he’s already lost. Oikawa’s snapped out of his funk, grabbing Hajime’s bag and stuffing his books and pencils in, mouth pinched tight in a determined line.

 _Fuck, he’s so cute,_ Hajime thinks and starts coughing again.

His friends work themselves into a frenzy at that, and suddenly he’s all bundled up and leaning against his locker at the entrance with Oikawa crouched at his feet, trying to put Hajime’s shoes on for him.

He pokes Oikawa between the eyes with a finger, clicking his tongue. “Shittykawa, I’m not so far gone that I need you to put on my own shoes for me.”

Oikawa gives a feeble whine, “Iwa-chan, so mean even when sick.”

“Are you sure you can get home okay?” Hanamaki asks for the seventh time, arms crossed.

“Yeah, it’s not really that bad—” his friends shoot each other looks of disbelief that Hajime pretends not to see— “I’m not going to make you guys walk me home.”

Hajime pulls his scarf up higher and his friends watch him walk out the door, identical expressions of worry on their faces.

 

 

He searches up the flower when he gets home, wondering why he hasn’t before and the site he clicks on cheerfully tells him in pastel pink font that it’s a delphinium. Hajime leans back in his chair and smiles wryly at a single line in the description.

‘It represents July birthdays and holds the meaning: to reach for your goals, striving to achieve it all.’

He spins a flower by its stem between his fingers, staring at the lines of faint indigo that shoot through the petals. It’s a pretty thing, and with the added meaning, Hajime admits it fits Oikawa perfectly.

He drops it onto the growing pile on his desk and nods.

_Tomorrow._

 

 

Wednesday morning has Hajime waking up to a room without a floor. More accurately, his floor has disappeared under a bed of delphiniums.

 _There’s no way that’s all going down the toilet._ He stares at them; their petals splayed wide open and iridescent in the faint light of the winter morning. He’s just going to have to leave them until after school; cleaning them up would make him late.

Hajime pushes himself up, swinging his legs over the edge. He stands and the single step he takes sends him stumbling and he catches himself with a hand on the wall, vision greying out. A sharp pain blooms in his chest and he gasps, hand fisted in his shirt. His mouth opens, a torrent of blue falling from his lips.

Hajime has no idea how long he stays hunched over like that, spitting out the flowers when they cling to his tongue, but when he straightens and looks out the window, the sun rises clear over the mountains. His toes curl into the soft petals. He sighs.

“Let’s get this over with.”

_(he’s not a coward)_

 

 

“Oikawa’s not joining us for lunch today? I need to tell him something.” Hajime says, dutifully copying down the notes his classmate lent him for the classes he missed yesterday.

Hanamaki drinks obnoxiously from his juice box. “Don’t think he even knows there’s a lunch _to_ join.”

Hajime glances up, confused.

Matsukawa reaches over and plucks the juice box from Hanamaki’s grip. He takes a sip, leaning away when Hanamaki swipes at him. “We’ve been meeting up at yours to eat lately, but he probably thinks you’re at home resting. _Like you should be_.”

_That explains why he didn’t wait for me to walk to school._

“Okay…?”

Hanamaki sighs, loud and dramatic, flopping over Hajime’s notes. “It _means_ that his lonely, single ass feels personally attacked around me and Mattsun’s pure, wholesome love—” Hajime snorts— “and so decides to indulge in his fangirls instead when you aren’t here.”

“Speaking of our resident drama queen, that’s him down there, isn’t it?” Matsukawa points out the window, down at the courtyard. Hajime leans over, scanning the figures below. He’s expecting to find a hoard of girls surrounding his best friend, but that’s not what he sees.

Oikawa’s talking with just one girl. The one that confessed to him on Monday.

They’re standing together off to one side and even from this distance Hajime can see the light flush that adorns the girl’s cheeks. Oikawa’s got one hand behind his head, a sheepish expression on his face and as Hajime watches, the girl reaches out and brushes a dead leaf off of Oikawa’s shoulder.

Something builds in the space between Hajime’s ribs, burning red and choking his insides with smoke and his hands fly up to his mouth but it’s already too late.

This time, when the flowers fall, they don’t stop. They burst from him and land all across his desk, his books and his notes. They plop wetly on the floor and blood drips down Hajime’s chin as he coughs, body heaving with every wave of delphiniums that leave him. There’s no end, Hajime can’t feel any relief and he stares blankly at the speed at which the flowers start piling up. Panic thrums through his body and he can barely inhale, the flowers shooting up so fast they threaten to clog his airway and leave him with tight, shallow breaths.

He hears Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s frantic yelling, their hands on his shoulders and his classmates are staring at them, they’re staring at the flowers, _the flowers_ , and he can’t, he can’t, he needs to leave, this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen—

Hajime bolts. He pushes his friends aside and runs out the classroom, out the school, faster than he’s ever ran and the flowers bite at his lungs but it doesn’t slow him down. His face is wet and Hajime doesn’t bother with traffic lights, pays no mind to the honks he gets or the gasps of passerbys at the trail of red and blue he leaves behind him. He runs the whole way home and collapses on the gate, fingers fumbling with the handle. When it swings open, Hajime nearly falls flat on his face, the adrenaline retreating from his muscles.

“Shit,” he says. He forgot his house keys.

He stumbles to the back door, an arm around his stomach and the other braced against the wall. He hiccups now and then and the petals are snatched away by the cold wind, flying high over the rooftops.

Hajime grabs the key from the flower pot hanging on the back veranda and slides it into the lock. It takes him three tries because his hands won’t _stop fucking shaking_ and he sniffles, blinking rapidly.

It’s not any warmer inside, but there’s no wind slipping under his shirt and piercing its frosty talons into his already bruised lungs. Hajime’s shoulders fall from the tense position by his ears, and he toes off his shoes, kicking them to the side. He closes the door and leans his head against it for a few moments, breathing shallowly.

“Shit.”

 

 

“Oh? Where’s Iwa-chan? I thought I saw him through the—window. What happened here?” Tooru tilts his head. Mattsun and Makki are standing by Iwa-chan’s desk and when they turn there’s something clutched in their hands, something so blue and so small.

And then Tooru realizes that they’re _flowers_ , lying scattered all over Iwa-chan’s desk and the floor around it. They’re covered in blood.

Why are they covered in blood?

He looks up at his friends and his confusion turns into dread at the expressions on their faces.

“…Where’s Iwa-chan?” he says again, and Makki turns away, shoulders pulled tight up to his ears.

Tooru moves forward on unsteady legs. He doesn’t know what kind of face he’s making right now, but his yearmates don’t look him in the eye, making way for him in the same way the layer of blue parts underneath his shoes.

“Oikawa.” Mattsun drops the flowers and they flutter to the floor, spinning like miniature red and blue pinwheels. “Iwaizumi needs you.”

Tooru stops a few feet away and Mattsun reaches into Iwa-chan’s bag, pulling out a pair of keys and tossing them to Tooru.

“We saw him go down the usual route to his house.” Mattsun puts a hand on Makki’s shoulder and jerks his chin at Tooru. “Go. We’ll take care of things here.”

Tooru’s fingers tighten around the keys, the shape of worn out beetle charm he’d bought Iwa-chan years ago pressing into his palm. He nods and turns to the door. The pounding in his head is shoved to the back of his mind and an eerie sort of calm settles over him, like the feeling he gets right before his team steps onto the court.

Nothing’s been explained to him but between Mattsun’s weary eyes and the way Makki’s crushing the petals in his fists, Tooru thinks he knows enough.

 

 

The thin house slippers don’t do much to soften the sting of the freezing floor and Hajime prays the heating kicks in soon because he can’t feel his toes anymore.

“Now, where did we put it…” He rummages through the kitchen sink cabinet and the musty mildew smell of the pipes has him wrinkling his nose. He spots the box of garbage bags and grabs two, hurriedly closing the doors with a grimace. He straightens up from his crouch, groaning as it sends a spasm through his chest. Giving his throat a weary pat, he takes the stairs up to his room two at a time.

The flowers are still where he left them that morning and Hajime walks to the middle of the room, spinning slowly and taking in the sight of them. His bedroom almost looks like a fairy tail hurricane swept in and threw up in it.

“Really pretty for something that’s slowly killing me,” he muses, bending down to scoop some into his hand. He shakes out one of the bags with his other and begins the slow process of stuffing each and every petal into it.

Hajime’s got one bag done with the second halfway full when he hears the lock clicking open downstairs. A glance at the clock tells him it’s only just turned one and he frowns; his parents are home really early today. He sticks out a leg and nudges the door closed, hoping they won’t come upstairs.

“Still gotta explain this to them, though,” he says, eyeing the bag of flowers. And the numerous spots of blood staining the carpet _. Yeah, that conversation’s gonna go great._

He gets a five second warning from the thumps coming up the stairs and then his door bursts open so violently Hajime can’t even deny the tiny _tiny really tiny_ squeak that comes out of him. The door bounces off his wall, swinging back and slamming into the person standing in his doorway, sending them careening backwards with a high-pitched squeal.

Wait a minute. He knows that squeal.

He rushes to his feet and lurches forward, hands grabbing the door and slamming it shut. Or, well, _tries to_ , anyway. Oikawa stops the door from closing all the way, getting his hands up against the other side and pushing back hard enough that Hajime has to throw his whole weight onto the door to keep Oikawa from bowling him over.

“Iwa-chan, what the hell!” Oikawa screeches, and the door seesaws furiously between them.

Hajime’s heart beats staccato and he yells back, “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in class?!”

“I could say the same for you!”

“Shut up, how did you even get in?”

“You left your keys at sch—”

“You went through my stuff, Shittykawa?!”

“That’s not important! And I know where you hide the spare one, anyway—”

“Are you a stalker? Stalkerkawa!”

“Iwa-chan, you brute! Just let me in!”

“No! Why are you here?!”

“Because you’re _dying_!” Oikawa’s voice cracks, and the awkward pitch of it splits through their typical argument like a merciless knife. The door stops straining between the two of them and the house goes silent, the coldness of the air making itself known again.

Hajime swallows. “W-what are you say—”

“There were flowers, Iwa-chan. All over your desk. So many of them and they were all—” There’s a choked noise from the other side and the door trembles. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t. You’ve got Hanahaki, don’t you?”

Hajime closes his eyes.

“Who is it?” Oikawa asks. “Who is it, who did you fall in love with, Iwa-chan?”

 _You,_ Hajime wants to scream. _You._

His hands curl, nails scraping on the faded green paint. He grits his teeth and fuck, he can feel the flowers acting up again, flowing up his esophagus like an awful, backwards drainage pipe.

“Just tell me, please, I’ll—I’ll help you!” Oikawa pleads. “I’ll get them to meet you and we’ll make it perfect, Iwa-chan, I’ll string up some fairy lights and make sure you’re not wearing any of the atrocious clothes in your closet, we’ll get you a bouquet of roses—the prettiest and reddest they have and you’ll confess and it’ll be so cheesy and romantic and she’ll love it, Iwa-chan, whoever she is, she’ll love you back—”

“Oikawa, _please._ ”

Hajime didn’t know his voice could sound like that. Broken and thin, his best friend’s name leaves his mouth on a wheezing exhale, and Hajime’s not leaning on the door to keep it closed anymore, he’s leaning on it for support, bent over and fists pressed to his forehead. The zig-zag pattern of his slippers warp and spin and his breaths come faster and faster, until he sounds like he’s sobbing.

He might be, actually. He doesn’t know.

“Iwa-chan? Iwa-chan, what’s wrong?”

Oikawa pushes again, gently this time but Hajime still ends up falling on his ass, weak as a newborn calf. The door finally opens and Oikawa slips into the room, sliding to his knees in front of Hajime and his hands immediately go to grab at Hajime’s shoulders.

Hajime looks at him with bleary eyes, watery eyes, and the way Oikawa’s face twists at that has Hajime thinking, _he’s so ugly when he cries and it’s so cute what the shit._

He’s so busy staring that he doesn’t even notice the flowers have started dripping from his mouth again until Oikawa pales and grips Hajime tighter, eyes wide with panic and brows scrunched high up on his forehead. Hajime coughs once, a pathetic wet sound, and is faintly horrified at the blood that splatters on his best friend’s collar.

Oikawa raises a hand to his chin and it comes away streaked in red and trembling. “No no no, no Iwa-chan, _no_ , please, I can’t—I can’t _lose you Hajime please._ ”

Oikawa’s right there with him, now, snot flowing freely from his nose as he cries, shaking and hiccupping in time with Hajime’s coughs. He looks so pained and heartbroken, like when they couldn’t find their way home one time trying to catch bugs as kids, like the time he burnt his hand on the oven trying to bake a cake for Hajime’s tenth birthday and ended up screaming so loud Hajime had come running from his house _across the street_ and ruined the surprise.

Like the moment right after they realized Shiratorizawa had slammed the ball onto their court and ended their last year of middle school volleyball just like that.

Like when Hajime had just barely managed to stop Oikawa from hitting Kageyama.

Or when the idiot pushed himself too hard and it ended up in a red knee and nights spent curled up in a single bed together, stifling whimpers.

 _(hajime it_ hurts _)_

Like when they _kept_ losing to Shiratorizawa, no matter how many serves his best friend practiced, late into the night and unrelenting in his ferocity.

And no matter how perfect Oikawa’s tosses were, it did nothing to keep the look he’s wearing now off his face when Hajime found him alone and stifling sobs in the clubroom the day they lost to Karasuno.

 _Why do you look like_ you’re _the one with the stupid disease, idiot._ Hajime squeezes his eyes shut and it takes everything he has in him just to keep breathing. He doesn’t know why he’s still conscious; the space around him overflows with delphiniums, his effort at cleaning wasted, and his uniform is stained such a _vibrant color_ —

“Shit _shit_ , nevermind, there’s no time,” Oikawa searches through his pockets with one hand, the other sliding around Hajime’s back, pulling him to Oikawa’s chest. “We need to get you to the hospital and you’re gonna get the surgery—”

“No,” Hajime pants, “no surgery, I—”

“Shut up, Hajime,” Oikawa says, phone held to his ear, “you are _not_ allowed to die because of some silly girl—”

Hajime pushes weakly at Oikawa’s chest, trying to pull away, he needs—he needs to see Oikawa’s face, he has to—tell—

Oikawa lets him, bewildered and slightly hurt.

 _His hair is a mess,_ Hajime thinks. But it’s still unfairly attractive, looking purposefully windswept instead of the bird’s nest it should rightfully be from running all the way here. Flushed cheeks and red-rimmed eyes, sniffling every two seconds—Oikawa hasn’t been this disheveled since he bawled his eyes out after that last middle school match.

Hajime reaches up, smooths the pad of his thumb over the wrinkle between Oikawa’s brows, a soft smile playing on his lips. Oikawa just stares back, cheeks tear-stained and nose running and Hajime just. Loves him so much, fuck.

He puts a hand to the back of Oikawa’s neck and tugs him forward, pressing their foreheads together. He takes a breath and lets his eyes slide shut.

“It’s you. I’m in love with you.”

The words are whispered into the scant inches between their mouths and Oikawa doesn’t seem to be breathing, the room falling into a sudden silence. Hajime lifts his head, and still has enough energy to offer one more puff of laughter at the stunned look on Oikawa’s face.

“Who else would it be? Stupid _Tooru_.”

And then he passes out.

 

 

When Hajime opens his eyes, it’s to a sky streaked with pink and golden and red clouds, tinged with blue and purple at the edges. They float by slowly, lazily, and a gentle breeze picks up, ruffling the grass by his fingers.

“Hajime, I’m so sorry, are you okay?!”

A tousled head of brown hair blocks out the sunset sky and Hajime takes in the face of his best friend, worried and on the verge of tears, again, the crybaby.

“Ah.” Hajime sits up, rubbing at the bridge of his nose and winces. The ball didn’t hit him too hard; the stick-thin arms of a kid don’t hold much power, but Tooru’s getting scarily good at handling the volleyball for someone who only started three weeks ago.

“I’m sorry.” Hajime looks over Tooru kneeling beside him, head turned away and an embarrassed flush high on his cheeks.

Hajime raises an eyebrow and cocks his head. “It doesn’t hurt, really. You’re not that strong.”

Tooru glances up at him through his fringe, and when Hajime just stares back evenly, Tooru lets a wobbly smile grow on his lips. Hajime grins back.

“Hey, let’s go inside, it’s almost dark,” he says, and when Tooru starts to droop, continues, “and you’re staying over.”

Tooru stares at him for a second and then swipes an arm over his face and gets to his feet, hands on his hips. “O-of course I am!”

Hajime rolls his eyes and jumps up, pushing at Tooru’s shoulder with a hand. He sticks his tongue out. “Race you to the door!”

Tooru screeches, an offended sound that brings the fiercest grin to Hajime’s face and then they’re tripping over each other, tumbling head over heels and yelling into Hajime’s house. Dirt and grass get tracked into the kitchen and Hajime’s mom just sighs and tells them to clean it up after they’ve taken a bath.

They do, speeding through it and getting changed quickly, Tooru grabbing from his stash of clothes that have taken up a corner of Hajime’s closet somewhere between their first meeting and the fifth time Tooru fell into a pond while exploring with Hajime.

“Can we watch a movie before we sleep?” Tooru says, voice muffled in the shirt he’s struggling to pull past his head.

Hajime walks over to yank it down, snorting when Tooru whines about him being too rough. “You mean the one with the aliens? You know you’re going to get nightmares and then I’ll have to let you sleep in my bed, again.”

“No, I’m not!”

 

 

He does.

Hajime lies there in the darkness with Tooru curled up under his chin and tries not to crow _‘I told you so!’_

“Shut up, I can hear you making fun of me.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re _thinking_ it.”

“You so cannot read minds.”

“I can read yours and it sounds stupid!”

“I will push you out of this bed and then you’ll have to sleep alone.”

Tooru’s head pops up and Hajime snickers at the panicked look he gives Hajime.

“No I’m sorry I take it back don’t leave me for the aliens I’m sorry Hajimeeeeee—”

“Alright, alright, I get it, go to sleep already.” Hajime yawns, and puts a hand to the back of Tooru’s head, pulling him down to rest on Hajime’s chest.

The stars shine through the window, moonlight landing on the wall opposite the bed, on the stickers and drawings of dinosaurs and aliens. There are crickets chirping outside, faint and familiar, and the summer night wraps gentle arms around them, sleep tugging at their eyelids and seeping into their muscles.

A single moment in their lives together and it’s the image of it that lingers, superimposed over Hajime’s blurred vision when he finally wakes, Oikawa at his bedside and the heartbeat monitor beeping away steadily above his head.

 

 

 

_“Hajime?”_

 

 

 

For a moment, Hajime thinks they did the surgery on him, but then his eyes fall to the bed, to the sight of Oikawa—of _Tooru’s_ fingers interlaced with his. Warmth blooms in his cheeks and in his stomach and Hajime curses, feeling the weight of the flowers in this throat but before they can do anything but make Hajime frown, Tooru jerks forward and wraps his arms around Hajime.

It’s awkward. Tooru’s half-kneeling, half-standing and Hajime’s got a mouthful of delphiniums and mussed, sweaty teenage boy hair but he finds himself relaxing into the hold, sighing into the crook of Tooru’s neck.

“I love you, too.”

Hajime chokes, hands coming up to fist in Tooru’s sweater vest. “What?”

Tooru pulls back, but his hands stay on Hajime’s shoulders, holding tight. There’s a glint in his eyes and a softness Hajime’s never seen on him before and _what did he just say?_

“I love you, too, Hajime.” Tooru looks him straight in the eye, and Hajime searches desperately in his friend’s face for hesitation, for even a _sliver_ of a lie and when he doesn’t, when he doesn’t—

“Are you kidding me,” Hajime says, and covers his face with a hand. He’s sure he’s crying, dammit, this is so embarrassing.

“I’m sorry it took me so long, but I just figured it out the day you went home sick.” Tooru pulls his hand away and brushes his thumb over Hajime’s cheeks, leans forward and presses kisses all over Hajime’s face. On his nose and his eyelids, his chin, his cheeks, and his jaw. Covers his forehead with them, tender and warm, chapped lips against tan skin. And finally on his lips, soft and salty from tears but so  _right._

Hajime laughs, a little hysterically, a lot joyfully and the petals in his mouth fall to his lap but they’re small and limp, turning brown almost immediately. He pulls Tooru up on the bed and they kiss again and again and again, little pecks of their mouths, grinning at each other.

“Tooru, Tooru, Tooru, _Tooru—_ ” Hajime turns his head and lays his hand over the one Tooru’s got on his face, smiling widely and presses a trembling kiss onto the palm. Tooru laughs, relieved and happy, and Hajime reaches forward, Tooru meeting him halfway there, pressing their foreheads together.

“Hajime.”

 

 

The sun shines through the window, a break in the winter fog and the clouds cast faint shadows on the white walls, across the two figures huddled together on a bed, sheets bunched and twisted around them. Hands intertwined and feet brushing ankles, knees overlapping like the brown that bleeds into black of two heads lying close, their breath even and light. Outside, the world rushes by, wind blowing and leaves falling but the dreams unfolding in the hospital room remain undisturbed.

 

 

“—and then he was like ‘what if he goes out with her, Makki?! What if they like each other and elope and have tons of pretty babies—”

“Where the hell is the transition between dating and babies—”

“—and then it’ll be just me and the two of you and your sickeningly sweet relationship and I’ll end up dying from starvation because I’ll admit it, I can’t cook _anything_ but it’s okay because I was going to have Iwa-chan cook for me forever, but now it’s _not okay because he’s a teenage father with quadruplets!’_ ”

Hajime turns and stares at Tooru, the blankest look in his eyes. Tooru starts sweating, fiddling uselessly at an unruly lock of hair. He laughs nervously.

“I-Iwa-cha—“

“You thought I was going to get Yamamoto pregnant with four kids and run off to nowhere because you saw her _give me a tissue_?”

“From where I was standing, it looked like a love letter!” Tooru groans, burying his red face in his hands.

 _How is that any better,_ Hajime thinks.

“You told us you were hiding right behind the corner, though,” Matsukawa says, as sharp and merciless as the knife he’s using to peel the apples Hajime’s various visitors dropped off.

“Mattsun, you backstabbing little slu—”

“And then eventually we got tired of him whining and moping all over the place so we just told him to make you his boyfriend—”

“Like you guys weren’t already, in everything but name—”

“But he just looked at us like he didn’t understand a single thing we were saying and _that—”_ Hanamaki opens his mouth and Matsukawa plops an apple slice onto his tongue— “is when we knew Oikawa Tooru had the emotional maturity of his kouhai, Kageyama Tobio, but worse because at least Kageyama got together with that shrimpy number ten on his own a few days ago.”

Tooru gasps, a hand flying to his chest in outrage. “ _You take that back_.”

Matsukawa hands Hajime a plate of apple slices. “We had to sit him down and lay it out for him. Told him just why he got jealous every time you mention talking to a girl, why he liked it so much when you let him drape himself all over you, why he has an unfounded grudge on poor, sweet Yamamoto, why both your parents have given up asking for grandchildren and acted like the world was ending when the two of you talked about going to different universities, why he always stares and drools whenever you get chang—”

Tooru shrieks, jumping out of his chair and flying across the bed to slap a hand over Matsukawa’s mouth. His face is so red Hajime practically feels the heat of it from where he sits, holding his stomach and laughing so hard Hanamaki has to reach over and save the plate of apples from falling to the floor.

“I can’t believe you’re so dumb you had to have our friends spell it out for you," Hajime wheezes, and he fears the nurses will come running if he keeps laughing this hard and messing up his vitals.

“When he finally realized, he looked at us like we were gods, Iwaizumi. Gods,” Matsukawa says gravely, dodging Tooru's hand again.

Tooru whips around to stare pleadingly at Hajime, even as he tries to hold onto Matsukawa long enough to strangle him. “Hajime, don’t listen to them!”

Hanamaki waggles his eyebrows, “Ohoho, so it’s _Hajime_ now, huh?”

Hajime blushes and glances away, clearing his throat. Tooru just groans and drops back into his seat, burying his face into the sheets by Hajime’s hip.

“Um.”

Hajime turns to the door, and blinks.

Yamamoto Aiko stands in the doorway, a bag clutched in her hands. She tucks her hair behind her ear and walks into the room hesitantly, nodding to Matsukawa and Hanamaki. She looks unsurely at Tooru, who’s still face down on the bed.

“I’m glad to see you’re okay, Iwaizumi-kun.”

At the corner of his eye, Hanamaki pokes at Tooru’s shoulder, snickering. Tooru smacks his hand away, very pointedly not raising his head and continuing trying to suffocate himself with the bedsheets. Hajime inwardly sighs and lays a hand on Tooru’s head, threading his fingers through the chocolate brown hair like he’s always wanted to. It’s just as soft as he thought.

Tooru stills under his touch and Hajime ignores the way Matsukawa and Hanamaki make kissy faces.

“Thanks, Yamamoto,” he says. “You look…better. Is Kurokawa…?”

Yamamoto nods, breaking into a brilliant smile. Her voice is impossibly soft when she replies, “Yeah, she’s gonna be okay now.”

Hajime hums, leaning back and looking her over appraisingly. There's a lightness to the set of her shoulders, and her clothes no longer looked rumpled, braids woven in her hair and pinned back with subtle star clips. It's a far cry from the last time they saw each other, one dying and both suffering. He makes an educated guess. “…She didn’t do the surgery, did she?”

Yamamoto places the bag on the bedside table and blushes slightly. “Nope. She, uh. We worked it out.”

Under his hand, Tooru twitches, and red creeps up his neck when Matsukawa and Hanamaki nudge him and lean in close to whisper, "Oh, would you look at that. Communication, such a marvel."

Hajime only smiles. “Nice.”

Yamamoto flushes harder and gestures to the bag. “Um, there’s soup in there. Mayumi had some and it seemed to help with the soreness.”

“Oh, thank you, that’s nice of you.” 

“No problem, hopefully I’ll see you in school soon!” She waves bye to them and leaves the room, a skip in her step.

 

 

Hajime turns back to his friends, to Matsukawa and Hanamaki who have somehow squeezed together into one chair and are now feeding each other apples aggressively in an attempt to beat each other at being romantic.

He looks down at Tooru, whose neck and ears are still red with embarrassment, peeking up at Hajime from behind his arms. Hajime props his chin in his other hand, ruffling Tooru’s hair teasingly.

“So, quadruplets with her, huh?”

“Hajime, _I swear to God_ —”

**Author's Note:**

> I know I’m supposed to be working on that victuuri fic (and i am, it's almost done!!!) but i hope this satisfied you guys for now im sorry ahhahah (￣▽￣)ゞ
> 
> [my tumblr](http://hiuythn.tumblr.com) send me a message!  
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/hiuythn)  
>  
> 
> [fanart based on this fic im amazed!!](http://vanilla-phantoms.tumblr.com/post/154832187555/based-on-the-fic-have-mercy-on-me-by-drovuri)
> 
>  
> 
> i debated between magnolia (nobility), tulips (pure love) and other flowers for a while but the reason i chose delphinium was bc well oikawa's birthday is july 20 which is the month of delphiniums and "reaching for your goals, striving to achieve it all" is like the core of oikawa? not that i know really know flower language i just googled it.


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